


Anything You Want

by Sproid



Category: due South
Genre: Emotions with your porn?, F/M, Fraser being submissive, and both of them loving it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sproid/pseuds/Sproid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Fraser doesn't enjoy sex, but for a multitude of reasons, he's chosen to avoid it. His attraction to Meg is the exception; she's the one in charge, so he doesn't need to worry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything You Want

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Deputychairman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deputychairman/pseuds/Deputychairman) in the [DS_C6D_Prompt_Meme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DS_C6D_Prompt_Meme) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Seascribe and I started off having a nuanced conversation about Fraser's sexuality and how he makes a conscious decision to resist sex because he's afraid of losing control, both because that's alarming in itself, and because of what has happened when he does. He's not asexual, he's like a medieval monk: aware of the temptations of sex, but resisting. 
> 
> But he allows himself to act on his attraction to Inspector Thatcher because she's a fellow Mountie and his superior officer so he trusts her judgement above his own - she's the one in charge, so he doesn't need to worry. If she thinks it's ok to kiss, he'll go along with that; if she thinks that's as far as they should go, he'll go along with that too. But if she changed her mind and thought they should do - other things, he'd go along with that just as obediently. At this point the conversation degenerated into, OMG, she could tell him to do anything, really, and he'd just... do it. ASDFGHJKLKJHGFDSDFGHJ!!
> 
> So I guess the prompt is obedient, submissive!Fraser does what Inspector Thatcher tells him to (and really enjoys it)? My mind went immediately to a happy place of porn, but I think there's scope for a character study sort of thing too, either of which would be stories made of win.

It's not that Fraser doesn't enjoy sex.

The physical act is a rush of heady, overwhelming pleasure, that's true enough, but it's tangled with an uneasy awareness that he's not in control of his body, of his mind, of anything in the situation at all. Afterwards, caught up in the whirl of emotions, he's vulnerable, too. His heart is not as reliable as his head, but his head is blinded by his heart, and he lacks the experience to separate the two. It leaves him open to be taken advantage of.

On the few occasions he's indulged, that's exactly what has happened.

The first time, it took him weeks to find his equilibrium again. Out on the ice with nothing for company except his dog-team, he re-learned which of his instincts he could trust, and locked away those which could not. He came back with his young heart bruised but whole, his head clear, resolved to doing his job and nothing else.

Since then, he's given in to temptation exactly once, nearly resulting in the loss of Diefenbaker, the trust of his friend, and the confidence of the Chicago PD. The worst part wasn’t that, though, nor not the time he spent in hospital afterwards. The worst part was that his inability to see Victoria's true intentions resulted in him being used to perpetrate an injustice.

As much as he knows that the crimes were Victoria's fault, not his, the encounter confirmed for him that sexual intimacy is not for him. So in the year that follows, he cements his friendship with Ray and his place with the Chicago PD, and resists on the occasions that he's reminded of his desire to be close to someone else. If he can't trust himself, and he can't trust his partner, then it's safer to avoid the danger of intimacy completely.

It's a principle he sticks to. That is, until Inspector Thatcher arrives at the Consulate.

\-- -- -- -- --

For the first few months, Meg isn't sure that Fraser is interested in women, or indeed sex with anyone at all. Granted, her presence seems to fluster him on occasion, but that could equally be his reaction to her personality rather than a result of any attraction on his part. Other than that, he conducts himself without any hint of impropriety. As for his interactions with other people, well, she's seen him rebuff more than one offer from the citizens of Chicago.

She's almost decided that he has no interest in anyone whatsoever when, for reasons she cannot determine, he begins to give indications that he might actually return the feelings she's been trying to keep under wraps out of respect for him.

Almost imperceptibly at first, he begins to relax around her. He returns her gaze with a quick smile rather than averting his eyes; only takes half a step away when she walks past, so that she brushes against him; eases at her hand on her shoulder instead of tensing in his chair like the first time she'd done it, not realising the effect it would have on him.

It takes weeks, but eventually Meg is sure enough to carefully nudge things further.

They have coffee together at lunch, Fraser seated at the other side of Meg's desk with his jacket over the back of his chair and his tie slightly loosened. Beneath her own chair lie Meg's shoes, abandoned so that she can stretch her stocking-clad feet to ease the cramps. When she not-entirely-accidentally nudges against Fraser's calf, he pauses in the middle of his sentence, and his eyes hold hers with a question that is apparently answered by her nod. Then he slowly stretches his legs out beneath the desk, and resumes his sentence. Letting loose a relieved breath into her mug, Meg sips at her tea and carries on also.

She gets a run in her stocking from where Fraser's boots catch at them, but it's worth it to send him on his way without that full-body tension she thought for a while was a permanent feature.

It doesn't escape Meg's notice that while Fraser will return her shows of affection, he rarely initiates them, and only then when she's given him ample indication that it's appropriate to do so. Which is not to say that he's uninterested – the spark between them is definitely felt on both sides – nor that Meg minds in the slightest that Fraser is apparently willing to accede to her guidance in this area. It's not what she expected, and she'll admit to curiosity, but as yet this barely-voiced attraction feels too new to risk disturbing with questions.

So instead, Meg simply does her best to look out for Fraser's wants and needs, and waits for the right time to discuss the subtleties between them.

\-- -- -- -- --

White fills the sides of Fraser's vision as the snowy ground streaks by below the train, wind rushing past his ears and the rumble of the tracks shaking his bones. It all fades though, save for the rapid beat of his heart in his chest, as he looks at Meg, her hair blowing around her face, her eyes steady on his.

“You know what I mean,” she says, and Fraser's mouth goes dry, because he does, they both do, but this is the first time they've got close to acknowledging it out loud.

This feels like a moment where everything could change. He could deny it; he thinks she'd let him, and he'd go back to his life of abstinence. But while Fraser doesn't trust himself, he trusts her; a fellow Mountie, trustworthy to the core; his superior officer, whose experience and judgement far surpass his own; a woman he knows won't back down from a challenge, nor let him do anything he'll regret.

“Yes, I do,” he says, and doesn't look away from her as he takes a step closer to her, to the bright red beacon of security that she is.

“I'm not made of stone,” she tells him.

As if he didn’t know. Stone is the opposite of the Meg who scolds Fraser in one breath and offers him amused praise for his antics in the next; who ruffles his hair gently when she notices his headache; who snaps when he does the same and then apologises. Stone is the opposite of the Meg who has waited for Fraser, and never once asked anything he's not yet ready to answer, even though her curiosity is obvious.

“I'm very much aware of that,” he tells her.

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“You are?”

There's a question there, but Fraser thinks it's more a request for information than anything else. He steps closer as he works out how to answer. “I know you have a heart, and I think it beats just the same as mine.”

“You think it does?”

“Yes.”

“What about right now?”

All of his past experiences tell him that it's a bad idea to answer that, to give her the specifics she's asking for, that it'll just end up being used against him. He trusts her though, and if she wants to know, he'll tell her, no matter how much his hands are shaking.

He takes in a deep breath. “It's racing.”

Her teeth catch on her lip, and she considers for just a moment before she speaks again. It's enough of a pause to reassure Fraser that Meg is still thinking clearly, still in charge. “Out of control?”

Fraser nods, and this one is easier to admit. “It's a runaway.”

She looks at him, waiting, he thinks, to ensure that he's alright after revealing so much. So he steps closer, and lowers his head until he can feel her breath warming his lips. At the last moment she reaches up and presses their mouths together, sending a flash of heat through Fraser that makes his head spin. He has to reach out and wrap his arms around her, holding on tight to her smaller but steadier frame, strong and stable where he is not.

As she kisses him, one hand curves around the back of his head to hold him there, firm reassurance that she's got him, fingers sliding through his hair to secure her grip. The other arm wraps around his back, pulls him closer against her, and he knows she won't let go, won't let him fall, so he closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and lets her in.

\-- -- -- -- --

Afterwards, Meg tells him that the kiss should not be repeated, and Fraser replies “Understood”. He waits for her to tell him to let her down off the horse, but she doesn't. Her arms stay snug around his waist, and Fraser nods once. Meg thinks the kiss is as far as they should go, and that's fine, because she's still got him, and Fraser knows he doesn't need to worry that she'll take advantage of what he revealed on top of the train.

\-- -- -- -- --

In the days that follow, they slip back into their pre-train interactions with none of the awkwardness or resentment that Meg had half-expected. She uses the time to think. She'd seen Fraser's tremors as he'd stood just feet away from her, felt them stop when he put his arms around her, and understands that her hold on him was the anchor that facilitated his immersion in the kiss.

Now she understands that Fraser is not only going to follow where she leads, but that he'll give himself over to her when they get there, too. And as, quite frankly, incredibly arousing as that thought is, Meg can't in good conscience take things further without more of an idea of what's going on in his head. That's not something that Fraser is likely to be comfortable just coming out and saying though. She'll have to wait for the right situation to broach the subject.

A week or so later, the opportunity arises when Meg looks up from her paperwork and glances across the corridor to see Fraser in his office, working as late as she is. He's rubbing distractedly at his shoulder as he writes, and as Meg gets up and walks to his door, he rolls it with a decidedly pained wince.

“Can I help you with that?” she asks.

Fraser's head comes up from his paperwork, furrowed brow smoothing when he sees her. “Inspector. Thank you, but no; I should have this document completed within the half hour.”

“I didn't mean with your paperwork, Fraser,” Meg says as she steps into the room. “I meant with your shoulder.”

His head tilts back as Meg comes closer, until he's looking up at her as she stands at the side of his desk. “Well, it's really not that much of a problem. I'm sure you have better things to do with...”

His sentence comes to a halt as Meg reaches out to brush his hair off his forehead, where it's fallen out of order during the day. His eyes drift shut for a second, and he lets out a quiet, “Oh,” before he nods.

When she slips her fingers beneath the strap of his braces, and tugs it off, he echoes her movement on the other one, and looks surprised only for a moment when she tells him to take his shirt off. Then he lowers his head, turns his attention to his buttons, and works them swiftly free. Carefully, Meg helps him ease his shirt off, and then he's sat with only the thin fabric of his undershirt between his skin and her hands.

“What did you do to it?” she asks as she moves behind him and settles her hands on his shoulders, testing gently.

“Aggravated an old injury while I was helping Ray rescue a duck,” Fraser tells her, then grunts softly as she finds a tight spot to the left of his neck.

Meg moves her attention to his left side, guided by the sounds he makes and how he shifts beneath her hands. “A duck, Fraser?”

“Yes. It had got itself stuck in an air vent half-way up the side of an apartment block. I had to lean out of a window while Ray held my feet, so that I could reach it to free it. It proved more difficult to extricate than I had – ah, there, please – expected. Hence the, the...” He trails off as Meg presses her thumbs hard into his shoulder, lets out a brief startled sound, and then slumps slowly into his chair with a soft sigh.

“Hence the damage to your shoulder?”

“Mm-hmm.” His head tips backwards towards her just a little more. Meg can feel him turning ever-looser as she works, until the hard knot of his shoulder eases completely and the sounds coming from his throat are entirely pleasure. His head is wavering as he tries to keep it upright, which is entirely unnecessary, so Meg slips her hand around to his forehead and tugs him gently backwards so that his head is resting against her stomach.

“Shh,” she says as his eyes flicker open. She waits until he closes them again, then moves her hand back down, brushing against the side of his neck and making him shiver before she continues. Gently now, she rubs at his shoulders, fingers straying forwards to dip into the shadowed hollow of his collarbone, trace along the pale skin beneath his neckline.

They both swallow when when Fraser tilts his head to the side to give her access to more. The intensity with which Meg wants to _take_ more is surprising, sneaks up on her in the quiet between them. She sticks to her resolve though, for herself, for Fraser, and draws her hands away from the tempting territory of skin back to his shoulders.

“Fraser?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“May I ask a personal question?”

His eyes open, and this time Meg doesn't stop him, although she rubs her thumbs slowly over the back of his neck in silent reassurance. He doesn't seem to need it though, and merely nods once, leaving his head resting against her.

“Why me?” she asks. “I've seen you approached by countless people interested in a relationship of some form or another with you. You never take them up on it. Why am I different?”

After a moment, he says, “Because I trust you.” That doesn't sound like all of it, and she can see enough of his face to tell that he's choosing his next words carefully. “I trust you to know what you're doing. I trust your judgement.”

“And you don't trust anyone else's?”

Fraser hesitates, and Meg can see that although he's about to answer, he's reluctant to do so. That's not what she wants, so she squeezes his shoulders and says, “Alright. Not today.”

Leaning down, her body curves away from his head, but she slips her hands either side of his face to hold him still as she places a kiss on the top of his hair. He breathes out at the touch of her hands, in at the press of her lips, and his eyes, wide-open and dark, hold hers when she draws back. Slowly, Meg tightens her hold on him, draws his head further backwards; he goes willingly, pliant, and the urge to take mingles with the need to protect when she sees the half-nervous twitch of his fingers against his thighs as he waits for her.

She brushes their lips together, licks at his top lip, nips the bottom, presses gently with one hand to get him to move until the angle is better, then slides her mouth against his and finds his tongue with her own. He groans, shifts in his chair, then stills without a hint of resistance when Meg moves one hand down to press against his breastbone.

Beneath her palm she can feel his chest rising and falling, quicker, harder, as she kisses him. He tastes of hot chocolate, his one sweet weakness, and its warmth mingles with his heat, until Fraser's not the only one breathing fast, Meg is right there along with him, and this really isn't the place to be getting any hotter and heavier than they already are.

When she draws back, Fraser's cheeks are flushed, fingers loose where they lie, mouth soft with an uninhibited smile that makes Meg want to kiss him again. Instead she brushes her fingers against the soft hair over his ears, waits for them both to breathe normally again, and for Fraser's gaze to focus and meet hers clearly.

Then she tells him, “Go home, Fraser. Your paperwork can wait until tomorrow,” and waits for his nod and accompanying, “Understood,” before she leaves.

\-- -- -- -- --

Fraser always feels marginally guilty when he leaves Diefenbaker alone in the evenings, but Meg expressly told him to leave Dief behind, and Fraser thinks perhaps she has activities planned to which a wolf should not be privy.

He's proved right when he ends up spread out on the sofa in her apartment, shirt unbuttoned and vest pushed up to his chest, Meg's weight on his hips holding him down as her hands skate up his sides. There are shivers in their wake, but Fraser doesn't move his arms, because she hasn't told him to, and in any case he's distracted by the kiss that's been going slow and deep for more minutes than he can keep track of.

When she raises her head, he feels dizzy for a moment at the loss of her, but she doesn't go far.

“What do you want?” she asks. For all she asks it quietly, it's not an idle question.

“Whatever you want,” he replies.

That draws a smile from her, but she still asks again, “What do _you_ want, Fraser?”

He shakes his head. “My judgement isn't the best in these situations.”

For a moment, Meg's expression is sharp, and he knows she's trying to work out what the obvious history behind that statement is. He'll tell her if she asks. Sometimes he feels that his past self has been exposed enough for a lifetime, but he knows Meg wouldn't do it any harm.

She doesn't ask though, simply nods once, and so Fraser continues down a different line.

“In any case, I really don't have a preference. I'm more than happy to do whatever you want me to.”

“Are you now?” Meg murmurs, and the serious moment fades away, replaced with a heat that Fraser feels all over, sees reflected by the intent in her eyes as she lifts her hands from him. For a moment he feels chilled, but then he's distracted by her deft fingers on the buttons of her blouse, and his mouth goes dry when she shrugs it off her shoulders.

When she takes his hands in hers and guides them around her back, he gets the idea and manages to unclip her bra, slide the straps off her shoulders without getting anything tangled, and draw it away from her breasts to discard it on the floor at her instruction. Then Meg's fingers curl around his wrists, draw his hands towards her, and Fraser spends the rest of the afternoon learning how to touch her, Meg's nipples hard beneath the brush of his thumbs, the rest of her soft against his palms, while she grows steadily more flushed above him.

This gentle, silent instruction is more than he's had before, more than he knew he needed; coupled with Meg's obvious enjoyment, of him, of what he's doing, it chases away any doubts he expected to surface, leaves him free to simply watch, listen, _feel_. The rasp of his breath in his throat, the way Meg's matching quick breaths make her breasts move against him, the sounds she makes when he presses just hard enough, and how she scratches her fingertips on the over-sensitive skin below his ribs in return.

His focus narrows to her, to the pleasure on her face that he can see when she's not kissing him, the way she takes control even now when she does press their mouths together, to the heat pooling in his groin, and that which he can feel from her through the layers of clothes they've still got on below the waist.

The temptation, the sensation, both hover just short of overwhelming, but for once Fraser wouldn't mind if they tipped over that way.

\-- -- -- -- --

It doesn't take Meg long to realise that while past experiences have resulted in Fraser's present-day unwillingness to take the initiative, the fact is that he very much enjoys being shown what to do.

Kissing Fraser against apartment door, Meg tugs his head down so she can reach it more easily, and feels his hands take up their now customary position on her waist. It seems as if she's spent the entire day just watching Fraser though, and now she wants to touch without interference. So she catches his wrists and draws them away from her, pressing them back against the door and enforcing the message with a firm, “Keep them there.”

The reaction she gets is unexpected. Fraser's eyes darken, and then his head thumps onto the wood behind him, while a low sound comes from his throat and his hips jerk into hers in the closest Meg has seen him to losing control. For a second she can feel the tendons in his wrists tighten, before he relaxes into her hold, and he raises his head to look at her with a needy expression that says ' _Yes_ ' as emphatically as the words he can't quite seem to manage.

It's at that moment that Meg realises as happy as Fraser is being shown what she wants, he's even more so when he's being _told_.

“Fraser,” she says slowly. “Why didn't you tell me you liked being told what to do?”

He has to swallow before he can speak, and even then his voice is somewhat hoarse. “I'm not entirely sure that I knew,” he admits. “You don't have to -”

Meg places a finger on his lips, and he stills, not even closing his mouth.

“Fraser, I thought I was the one who decided what does and doesn't happen here?”

Her tone makes the desired impact. “Uh-huh,” he agrees immediately.

“Then be quiet, take off everything you've got on above the waist, and put your hands back against the door when you're done.”

Fraser scrambles to obey with an oh-so-pleasing efficiency and eagerness. When Meg nudges at his boot with her own and tells him to spread his legs, he complies with a groan, and slides down the door until he's on a level with her. Then Meg steps between his legs, presses their mouths together at the same time as their hips, and draws muffled sounds of pleasure from them both.

\-- -- -- -- --

Fraser finds that as Meg talks to him, calm, precise instructions delivered with ever-present affection, so he finds it easier to voice the things he so far has not said. Bit by bit, he reveals himself, easier every time as he sees Meg take on board the information and store it away, never to be mentioned unless he raises the topic again.

It becomes a tradition, that he will go to Meg's apartment after work on Fridays, and that over the course of the evening, he'll tell her whatever comes to mind.

“I thought I was in love with my first partner,” he says from where he's sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa, Meg's legs either side of him and her fingers stroking through his hair. The television is on but neither of them are really watching it, so he doesn't feel bad about interrupting on-screen events.

“I take it she didn't feel the same?” Meg asks.

“He,” Fraser corrects. “And no, he didn't.”

“I'm sorry, Fraser” Meg tells him, and sounds like she means it, her legs tightening either side of him in lieu of a hug. They're quiet for a few minutes, until the advert break, and then Meg slides off the sofa and into Fraser's lap, warm and real against him to chase away the ghosts of pain.

He tells her the rest the following week, murmurs his vulnerability into the soft curve of her stomach while he presses kisses around her navel. She doesn't seem to mind that he's letting out his secrets in the midst of making her shiver, just pulls him up, rolls them over, and lays her hand over his heart while she kisses him.

The whole mess about Victoria comes out in one go, because the most recent pain is the one that hurt the longest, and it's a relief to spill the facts and the feelings out in one long monologue. Meg holds his hand while he talks, twines their fingers together afterwards, and doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to; the anger on her face says most of it, and the way it softens as she reaches out to rub her thumb across Fraser's brow afterwards says the rest.

That evening, he sleeps on her sofa instead of going home. Whether it's the blanket she puts over him, or that she keeps her door open a crack during the night, something scares off the nightmares he had fully expected to recur.

Then all that's left for him to reveal is his fear, his dislike of losing control, of losing _himself_ , in the moment. But he's never told anyone about that before, aware that it's neither something that most people relate to, nor something they wish to be aware of. The other reason he hesitates is that as yet he's not felt anything approaching worry when he's sprawled out beneath her, head spinning, blood humming in his veins.

As ever, Meg makes the decision for him.

“Save it for a rainy day,” she tells him when he mentions that there's something else to tell. Then she strips him of his sweater and shirt in the middle of her living room, draws him through the doorway to push him onto her bed, and chases his goosebumps with her tongue. It can wait then, Fraser decides, before Meg realises that he's distracted, and moves up his body to lick around his ear and murmur “Hands around the headboard, Fraser.” Breath catching, he does as ordered, and gulps at Meg's satisfied smile.

\-- -- -- -- --

The slow build is tortuous for Meg, but in a way that's so much better than good. It's been years since she's had licence to linger so long on the stage that is technically 'foreplay', but for which she has an equal fondness as the actual 'play'. This is the part that's filled with anticipation, with surprises, with discoveries; getting to know Fraser's body, how it reacts to her touch, how her own responds to him, mixed with the delights of simply being able to touch someone. It's giving pleasure without expectation and, in this case, taking it, too.

There's also the fact that it's been a long time since she's been the one calling the shots during sex; even then, that was only a few times with one of her very-slightly less conservative partners. Never has she had someone cede control to her as willingly as Fraser does, nor who finds such obvious enjoyment in following her every instruction. And he's not the only one who enjoys it.

For Meg, it's a heady rush every time he lies back at her order, squirms and sighs beneath her touch but doesn't move. More so when he's putting his hands and mouth on her as directed, eager, careful, precise, drawing the same reactions from her that she does from him, until she's gripping at his shoulders and barely resisting the need to rock against him.

Which is why she's surprised when, on a Saturday afternoon that they've spent half-naked and working up a sweat on her bed, Fraser lifts his hand to brush her hair back from behind her ear, and asks her, “What do you get from this?”

Meg blinks down at him. “You're serious?”

He nods. “Other than the obvious sexual pleasure, I mean.” Then it's his turn to blink, and he stumbles into the next sentence. “Assuming you are getting sexual pleasure, that is, because if you're not-”

It's finger over lips time again, which quiets Fraser quite nicely, and also suits Meg because he takes it as an invitation to draw it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it as he looks up at her and waits for her reply. Meg shivers, and assures him, “Yes, Fraser, I'm getting more than adequate pleasure from this, thank you.”

“Goog,” he says around her finger, and Meg sends him an amused look before she reluctantly withdraws it, because this is a conversation that requires two participants.

“By 'this', I assume you're referring to the fact that I'm the one in charge of the sexual aspects of our relationship?”

“I am.” With a slight flush, he explains, “You see, one might assume that taking on such responsibility is a lot of work, and detract from the enjoyment.”

“Fraser, other than when you're running riot while on duty, when have you ever been any work?”

“I do not run riot!” he protests. Meg raises an eyebrow. “Occasionally I could perhaps be said to run 'amok',” he allows.

“Just occasionally?” Meg murmurs, as she draws his hand away from where it's still against her face, and places it back above his head to join the other arm that lies loosely there. Then she gives him a proper answer.

“I assure you, Fraser, I thoroughly enjoy having you spread out beneath me, or above me, or in any position of my choosing, for me to do with as I wish.”

The words have more of an impact on Fraser than she expects. His eyes close, and he says with raw honesty and arousal mixing in the rumble of his voice, “I'd let you do anything to me. I'd do anything for you.”

It's the first time he's said it, and it makes Meg's heart ache at the same time as arousal washes over her, and she feels herself getting wet where she's straddling his hips. “I know you would,” she tells him, then leans down to take his mouth in a bruising kiss that, as ever, he yields to at once.

“Open your eyes, and stay where you are,” Meg says when she draws back. She can see him struggle to open them, but open them he does, and then watches her as she moves to sit beside him on the mattress. His breath catches when her fingers go to his fly, but he holds himself perfectly still, letting out only the quietest of sounds as she undoes his jeans and brushes, despite the care she takes, against the hardness in the white boxers below.

“Lift,” she tells him as she hooks her fingers through his belt loops, tugging his jeans off his hips when he does. Slipping off the bed, Meg stands to draw the fabric down the long length of his legs, and over and off his feet along with his socks. Then he's lying there with only his underwear between him and her gaze, the white cotton doing nothing to hide his arousal.

“Breathe, Fraser,” she tells him, and watches him draw in one deep breath, another, a third. “Better?”

He nods. Meg reaches behind herself to find the fastening of her skirt, sees Fraser's eyes go to her breasts for a moment, then shoot back up to hers as he realises what she's doing. Her skirt falls away, joined shortly on the floor by her tights, and Fraser's breathing has sped right back up again but his eyes don't leave hers.

“You can look, Fraser,” she says, and waits until his eyes drop before she slips her thumbs beneath the waistband of her lacy underwear, pushes it down, and steps out of it.

In the sheets above Fraser's head, his fingers tangle in the sheets, and he opens his mouth to say “Meg,” voice shaky, hoarse, needy. He stays that way until she joins him on the bed, soothing him with a hand curved around the side of his neck, and reaches up to take his fingers in her own. Drawing his arms down and then around her, she nudges him into movement with murmured instructions and gentle tugs until they're on their sides, facing each other with a bare inch of space between their bodies.

With Meg touching him, it doesn't take long for him to quiet, and the glimmer of a sheepish smile lets her know that he's done over-reacting. So she brings her leg up, guides his hand down, tells him with words how to touch her, lets her actions and reactions reveal the how. When she comes, it's hard and fast, clenching around the two fingers Fraser has inside her, while his thumb rubs around her clitoris and he adheres more than satisfactorily to her gasped instruction of “Don't stop”.

As the last ripples of pleasure fade away, Fraser's fingers slip from her, and she mumbles into his neck, “Talented fingers. We'll have to see how that tongue of yours fares next time.”

“Right you are,” he says, in a dazed tone that draws Meg's head up. When she focuses on him, his expression as he looks at her is equal parts stunned and soft.

“What is it?” she asks.

“You looked...” He casts around for the right word, and for something to wipe his fingers on at the same time.

“Sheets,” Meg tells him.

He nods, and brings his arm carefully around her when he's done. For a while he just holds her, while Meg rubs a hand slowly along the slightly-quivering muscles of his arm and watches him think.

“You looked incredibly happy,” he says eventually.

“Not just 'incredible'?”

“That, too,” he tells her seriously, but can't stop his smile peeking out in recognition of her teasing.

“Thank you, Fraser,” she replies, equally as straight-faced before her lips curve upwards and she kisses him briefly.

Then a giant yawn escapes her, and has Fraser struggling to hold back a grin when it's followed by another.

“Nap time?” he enquires innocently.

Meg uses him as a pillow for that, which doesn't particularly work as punishment because he just looks happily up at her when she pushes him onto his back, and pulls the blanket over their bare skin before they cool too much. Despite the fact that he still has his boxers on, his sigh as Meg curls up against his side is entirely contented, and his breathing slows until it's sleep-deep even before Meg's does. That, she assumes, means that he's just as satisfied with the evening's events as she is.

\-- -- -- -- --

Next time, she does make Fraser use his mouth on her, which he loves even more than using his fingers. Wooden floor hard beneath his knees, Meg's fingers almost painfully tight in his hair, the taste of her on his tongue, all have his cock is painfully hard in his boxers – the only thing he's wearing – and he wants to come, but more than that he wants Meg to come, because that's what she's told him to do.

Afterwards, he keeps his hands on her shaking thighs until she pulls him up to kiss him, deep and messy, licking into his mouth with an entirely satisfied sound. Her arms loop around his neck and she mumbles “Up” against his lips, then nibbles at his ear as he carries her into the bedroom, where they curl up on the bed with Meg half-sprawled over Fraser.

The lazy stroke of her hand down his side draws shivers on his skin, and his spinning head can't focus on anything other than the mess of her dark hair on his chest, desire clouding and narrowing his view, but she's soft and warm, holding him down, until the need fades and he can think again.

It becomes a theme.

They go to the cinema, and on the way home, Meg drags him into an alley, presses him against the wall with her thigh between his own to keep him there, and kisses him. Cold lips heat against his own, distracting him until her even colder hands slide underneath the layers between him and the winter night, and he draws in a startled breath.

There's nowhere for him to go and Meg takes advantage, working her fingers past the waistband of his jeans, stroking against the sensitive skin below. Cold, too cold, and Fraser's got no choice but to do what she stays and “Stay right where you are,” until cold turns to heat and he's still shivering, rubbing against her leg as he hardens in his trousers, while she takes his mouth and doesn't let him up for air until there are stars floating in his vision even though the sky is obscured by snow clouds.

An alley in public is no place for him to be this aroused, but Meg will no more let anything happen to him here than in the safety of the bedroom. So when her hands tuck his shirt back into his trousers, but she doesn't move back even an inch, Fraser stays where he is and breathes, watches it mist in the air, feels the night chill his flushed cheeks, blinks and looks at Meg, lets the small things come to his attention until his vision widens again and he comes back to himself.

“Home, Fraser?” Meg asks, and Fraser nods, waits for her to put her gloves back on, and holds her hand as they walk back.

Sometimes he doesn't know what he's saying, could be babbling anything for all he knows, words of need and adoration released into the air of Meg's bedroom. Even when he's not talking, he knows he gives himself away; blushing when Meg whispers praise into his ear, loosening beneath her touch and seeking it out when it's gone, clinging to her at night and only letting go when she tickles him awake in the morning.

The realisation comes to Fraser when he's got his hands tied to the headboard, Meg above him with a calculating smile on her face, keeping him still with her weight on his hips and one hand on his chest, while with the other she traces an ice-cube around his tight nipple. Fraser's lips are dry; he keeps forgetting to lick them, has barely got the concentration to keep up with the sensations spreading from where Meg's touching him. When she lowers her head to take both Fraser's nipple and the sliver of ice in her mouth, it's scorching-cold wetness that Fraser cries out at, jerks away from, then groans and relaxes into, panting until Meg raises her head, looks at him, and reaches for another ice cube to start again.

Every so often she leans forwards to wet his lips with her tongue, brush his damp hair back from his forehead, rock back against his hardness through his boxers, and Fraser is slowly losing the ability to even think.

It's then that it comes to him, with a “Huh” that he only realises he's said when Meg's face comes into his wandering vision and she catches his gaze.

“Something you want to share, Fraser?” she asks, tracing a finger over his eyebrow.

“Why do I get the impression that you already know it?” he replies.

In response, he gets a soft smile and silence.

He'd thought this would be more difficult to admit, but the words are easy to form under her watchful protection. “I feel you should know that, in general, there are certain aspects of sex which I am less than fond of. The physical acts tends to be enjoyable, but I find it... alarming, to be so overwhelmed, and lose control of myself. Sometimes I feel... like I might lose myself.”

The lack of surprise lets him know that she already knew, but she listens anyway. “And now?” she asks.

Fraser twists his head and looks up at his hands, wiggling his fingers before returning his eyes to Meg. “I've already lost control with you,” he tells her simply. “It doesn't seem to bother me too much.” He means more than simply in the sense of being tied up, but those words are unnecessary.

Meg nods. “And if you lose yourself?”

Once, even the thought of that would have him shying away from thinking about it. Now he replies, “Where could I go that you wouldn't find me?”

Meg's hands slide up his arms, curl around them, bringing her into contact with him from the waist upwards as she leans in and tells him firmly, “Nowhere, Fraser.” She seals the promise with a kiss that Fraser feels all the way down to his toes, and reignites the temporarily muted heat of arousal, nudging him onto the slow slide away from coherency once more.

It's not a surprise when, after that, Meg unties him and then moves away, while Fraser does exactly as she says, stays completely still, body thrumming with anticipation, his own ragged breaths loud in his ear but not as loud as she soft scratch of fabric over his skin as Meg pulls his boxers off. It makes sense that she would wait, because she needed to know that he knew that -

The thought disappears when her hand closes around him, and Fraser lets it go, groans low in his throat and presses his head into the pillow as he stops himself from arching into her grip. Then her other hand strokes over his hip, and she says, “God, Fraser...” Shortly followed by, “Not _that_ still, just don't move too much, alright?”

“How... how will I know?” he gasps out.

Her forearm comes across his stomach, and she leans her weight onto it. “I'll tell you, Fraser.”

“Understood,” Fraser says, and when the pressure lightens, he's finally allowed to give in and rock his hips upwards, while at the same time he drags his head up off the pillow so that he can see. He has to try twice, caught off-guard the first time by the rush of pleasure that washes over him and leaves him weak when his cock slides against her hand. But then he manages to prop himself up on his elbows, only to nearly collapse again when Meg meets his eyes, then lowers her head to lick a hot stripe along his length.

By the time she moves back up his body, the only word Fraser can get out is, “Meg,” which leaves him in a soft rush as she pushes him back onto the pillows and straddles him. Her hand finds his, draws it down between their bodies, and he knows how to do this, knows how to slide his fingers into her -

Only that's not what she has planned, and he's unprepared for how hot, how wet, how _soft_ she is when she sinks down onto his cock. When his fingers nudge against her, she tightens around him, and Fraser can do nothing but arch into her and say her name again, caught up in the sensation that he's free to submerge himself in now.

He's still mumbling when she leans forwards to kiss him, quiets only beneath the firm press of her mouth, while she strokes her fingers over all the sensitive spots she knows. She moves over him until he can't do anything except feel her, breathe her, shiver and shake beneath her, grip at her hands with his own, and abandon himself to the hot, fast rush of pleasure that he has no choice but to surrender himself to.

When he blinks his eyes open some time later, there’s no hint of impending disaster. All he feels is bone-deep satiation, and a pleasant hum in his body that makes him want to wriggle against the sheets, against Meg, just to keep it going. He does, and hears Meg laugh softly above him. When he manages to get his eyes to open, she's looking fondly down at him with equal satisfaction on her face.

“You're here,” Fraser says sleepily, wondering if his smile looks as foolish as it feels.

She raises an eyebrow. Fraser can see her think 'You were expecting someone else?', but what she says is, “I told you I would be.”

He hums his agreement, loops his arms around her, and rests his chin against the top of her head when she settles against him.

“I take it,” she says, “That you would not object should I wish to do this again?”

“Only if you mean right now,” Fraser mumbles, although he's not quite sure where he found the brainpower for that attempt at humour.

“Who do you think I am; Wonder Woman?” she mutters, and Fraser huffs out as much of a laugh as he has energy for, floating in the obvious affection of the give-and-take.

“Sometimes, yes,” he says.

Meg doesn't laugh at him for being ridiculous, just tightens her hand around his and replies, “Likewise.”

Not that he objects, but it's not an expression of feelings that Fraser has heard before. When he mentions this to Meg, she grumbles, “And it's not one you're going to get again unless you shut up and go to sleep. Is that understood, Fraser?”

Fraser shuts his eyes and smiles. “Yes, Meg.”


End file.
